


no more yielding but a dream

by seaswept



Category: Dead Poets Society (1989)
Genre: Fix-It of Sorts, Future Fic, Gen, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Minor Character Death, Post-Canon Fix-It, Science Experiments
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-10
Updated: 2018-01-10
Packaged: 2019-03-02 13:12:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,089
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13318851
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seaswept/pseuds/seaswept
Summary: "What kind of dream would this be, Charlie?""The best kind."





	no more yielding but a dream

**Author's Note:**

  * For [brampersandon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/brampersandon/gifts).



> Sometimes I just like twisting the knife in deeper.

Pittsie is the only one brave enough to follow him to the west coast, or rather circumstance makes him take the full ride to Caltech. 

So it’s Pittsie who makes the call and hustles him through a side door into a small lab where Meeks is talking to a lackey in a lab coat, exuding a quiet confidence Charlie still hadn’t gotten used to from the post-collegiate Meeks. Pitts doesn’t even blink when he starts chuckling to himself.

Meeks dismisses the kid who either had stars in his eyes for the man or was dazed at whatever Stevie had been explaining.

“Doctor,” Charlie nods as seriously as he can, greeting Meeks.

“Doctor,” He repeats himself to Pitts, who only looks amused at the antics and he finally points to himself with a flourish.

“Dropout.” He bows. Meeks huffs out a laugh.

“If you’re done with clowning around…” Meeks raises an eyebrow at him and Charlie only half-shrugs in reply, uncertain as to why they wanted to meet at a lab on such a fine morning. It wasn’t like he could help tinker with whatever Pitts’ post-doctorate project was with the power of his romance language prowess, unless he needed some instructions translated.

Gerard and Stevie both appraise him in an uncomfortable manner that makes Charlie itch for a few seconds before Meeks sighs in defeat. 

“You know how Gerard has been helping me with some research on the side, since I’m still interning at the hospital--” Charlie waves him on, motioning to speed up the explanation, knowing Meeks had to have a point somewhere beyond the technical jargon that would bore him to tears. 

“We wanted you to help us test it out.” Pitts jumps in, cutting to the chase as reliable as ever.

Charlie smiles, feeling the sharp edge of it curl into a brittle nostalgia. Just like old times then, with less smuggling of copper wires and more fumbling around the gaps of time and age that had seeped into their acquaintance.

“It’s not exactly legal, strictly speaking.” Steven adds.

“Fear not, Meeks, just lead the way.” Charlie doesn’t pretend to catch the furtive looks Meeks and Pitts trade at his breezy dismissal. Legal help wasn’t ever at the top of his list anymore, not since Knox had bailed out of his life to return to New York. Charlie was always going to jump into unknown waters with both feet because that’s exactly how he liked it. 

-

They lead him to a Frankenstein machine that even he knows is probably not quite patent ready, if even functional. There’s a thick semi-translucent cap with wires on the seat and straps on the arms of the chair along with two monitors on either side and stacks of other unidentifiable machines building a small city behind the padding of the oddly long back of his temporary throne. 

“Restraints, Meeks? I never thought you’d be the type.” He leers jokingly. The sight of the heavy buckles makes his palms sweaty, his neck hot with apprehension. He’ll see the strange experiment through. It was just first-time jitters; he coaxed himself down from the sour fear of institutions and mind-numbing drugs. Meeks had given him a condensed run-through of what they wanted to do with memories and demented little old ladies who couldn’t remember their keys or their husbands. 

Pitts had promised if anything went wrong, they would immediately shut it down, but it was more likely Charlie would fall into dreamless sleep in the middle of the test run than anything else.

“It’s just a precaution.” Gerard assures him before nervously shuffling to the chair and picking up the cap gingerly. 

Charlie blows out air noisily from his mouth, wishing he had asked for a smoke break but remembering he was trying to quit anyway. 

“Okay, okay. Let’s do this.” He jumps twice on the balls of his feet before approaching the seat and meeting Steven’s eyes. 

“Just relax and think happy thoughts,” Pitts adjusts the cap on his head. Charlie snorts, half sedated muttering about pixie dust before he closes his eyes to the bright lights of the sterile lab.

His eyes feel heavy and dry, crusted over with the sand of sleep when he feels the jostling movement of a hand shoving him awake. He garbles out a protest, gets out a swear in French for good measure before attempting to join the living, half a question about how it went formed on his gnarly tasting tongue when he hears a voice he hadn’t heard in years. 

“I didn’t know you knew French, Dalton. You’re going to be late if you don’t get up right now.” Richard fucking Cameron was just as stupid-looking as he remembered. 

He groaned, adolescence wasn’t a happy memory. Latin lessons and repressed teenage boys at Hellton was not what the doctor ordered. He would be having words with older Meeks when he woke up and would definitely make him pay for an extravagant lunch. He wondered if he could mess with the Meeks in his memory or even Cameron for--he jack-knifes up from his bed as if electrocuted, ice flooding him with the realization that right across the hall from him, a ghost was waiting to say hello. 

Neil Perry was alive. 

It was a memory, he reminded himself firmly. This was a memory and Neil wasn’t alive except in his head. Charlie doesn’t laugh, isn’t capable of wheezing out even a snicker because his lungs felt worse than the time he went through three-quarters of a pack after his break-up with Louis. He felt like the world was slowly turning upside-down and his footing wasn’t going to help him in the least. _It was a memory_ He repeated. 

“Charlie, are you--Charlie? Oh for the love of, _Nuwanda_ , are you alright? You didn’t get into a bottle of rum again did you?” Richard jabbers on like a particularly annoying pest, suspicious and simple, and God, no one’s called him Nuwanda since then. 

It was a memory.

“What was a memory?” Cameron asks exasperatedly. Charlie doesn’t know when his hands rose up to his face on their own accord but recovers enough to run them through his hair, taking in the sensation, grounding himself in it. Pulling himself away from hysteria as he kicks off his covers. 

“Nothing, Cameron. What day is it?” Trepidation fills him. 

“Wednesday, the 13th.” Charlie heaves, curls into himself like a bug. Two days before--before Neil-- 

It’s just a memory.

-

He feigns illness, cowardly, but Charlie doesn’t get the logistics of dreams or memories and no one disputes the pallor and sweat on his face as anything other than a stomach bug, not a symptom of facing a nightmare. Meeks and Pitts never thought of a backdoor, a deus ex machina to get him out of whatever sleep hell this was, so Charlie was stuck. 

It didn’t mean he wanted to repeat banal classwork. Besides, this didn’t happen in reality. In the real world, Charlie had gone to class and hadn’t given any thought to Neil’s last and only rebellion against Mr. Perry. He’d been _excited_ to watch him on stage, after so many weeks of hearing Puck’s lines. 

He hated Shakespeare, would avoid the little section the plays carved out in the classics in every bookstore he’d visit. He’d burn every Midsummer’s Night Dream copy he could find if he could. 

Neil shows up around lunch time. 

“Meeks said he didn’t want to catch anything.” Charlie doesn’t even notice the sheafs of paper in his hands. God, he had missed Neil so fiercely in the days after, and had thought even in the eight years that had gone by that he still felt that hollow space Neil had left behind in their lives--but this was terrible, a vice with the strength of a bear behind it, tearing through him so acutely that he gasps out in half-formed pain.

“Charlie?” Neil jumps to his side, hands hovering awkwardly and it’s so Neil, kind-hearted Neil that Charlie shakes his head. Surely, this is what pulls him out, what tells Meeks to get him the hell out of his head and into the land of the living. 

Nothing happens, no matter how much he squeezes his eyes shut. 

Plan B then.

“Wanna go for a smoke?” He offers shakily, not quite meeting his haunting head on. Neil’s smile is bright enough to hurt. He’d forgotten how angelic it looked. _human seraphim_ floats in the back of his mind, an old line.

They manage to get to the courtyard without trouble. Charlie almost missed the view, were it not for all the messy rest that came with remembering Welton. He shuts out the last memory he has of Neil, in his parent’s car. Charlie useless and angry at Mr. Perry, without an outlet beyond a long walk back to the school. He chokes down bile and lights up a brand of cigarettes he’d ditched long ago. 

He can’t quite savour the moment, but he drinks in Neil’s profile, all cheekbones and floppy hair, before passing him the cigarette wordlessly. 

“You look terrible.” He doesn’t laugh, a missed cue in favor of watching his favorite ghost take a drag. Charlie wonders what he would’ve done, if he had known. If he would’ve taught Neil to give into more than an occasional puff of smoke. 

“You’re just jealous.” It’s a beat too late, but Neil isn’t looking at him anymore and Charlie insanely thinks he should do something else, set his robe on fire with his matches just to keep his eyes on him, just to _keep_ him.

This never happened, he reminds himself.

The lit end burns merrily away between Neil’s fingers. 

“Avec mes souvenirs, j'ai allumé le feu.” He doesn’t quite sing it, no one can sing it like Edith. 

Neil turns in surprise, eyebrows furrowing, and that damn smile still faintly on his lips. Charlie thinks he would’ve liked Paris a lot more if Neil had been there with him, instead of his hazy memory. He would’ve had to convince him, stubborn Neil who was always aware of the money between them like that mattered when you were dead. 

He wants to shout, wants to be that barbaric yawp Keating talked about back then. _I had to tell Todd_ , he accuses with his eyes, _I had to tell him you were dead. We had to see him crumble and yell and I couldn’t do a thing._

Suddenly, Charlie doesn’t want to be anywhere near the courtyard. 

“I didn’t know you knew French.” It’s like a bad script. The lines keep going even when you know they’re wrong and hollow. Charlie feels trapped, the itching starts again. 

“There’s a lot you don’t know.” He snatches the cigarette from his fingers and stomps it out. He’d only found out he was better with living languages after Neil had died. Wasn’t that some sort of ironic twist of fate?

Knox visits next.

The last time Charlie had seen the Knox he knows, he had been yelling at him to grow up and stop squandering his inheritance doing nothing. So, Charlie was in no mood to be visited by Christmas Present in the form of teenage Knox, even if it wasn’t the Knox he was actually angry at. This Charlie probably had enough reasons to be angry at this Knox, the list beginning and ending with being half in love with him for too many years.

He’s exhausted of this dream. 

“Well, don’t you look surly, Nuwanda. Chin up, you got to miss a full class of declensions.” Knox doesn’t even pretend to have boundaries or caution of germs as he lays down next to him on the narrow bed. 

“You’re an ass.” It doesn’t come out with half the vitriol he was thinking it with. 

“And you are clearly bored of confinement and spoiling for entertainment.” That was Knox alright, always succinctly reading through his ego. 

“You’re better now aren’t you? We’re going to the cave tonight. Neil wants to get in another meeting before the play.” His stomach doesn’t lurch at the mention but he shivers at the press of time, knowing he’ll be unable to stop what already happened, hoping he wouldn’t have to go through the motions of that day, stuck in a dream.

He closes his eyes and falls back into the present.

Meeks is undoing the straps across his chest. 

“How long was I out?” He croaks out, his adult voice sounding odd to his ears. Pitts looks at his watch.

“Not quite a half an hour. You did well. No signs of anything wrong on our end. There were some stress indications about halfway in but you seemed to even out after that.” Charlie looks over to Meeks, not bothering to thank one of Pittsie’s henchmen for the steadying arm after he got up. 

He points, “you owe me lunch for this.”

Gerard closes his mouth before Stevie agrees easily, “Okay, but I’m picking the place. What did you see?”

Charlie doesn’t even have to think before the glib answer curled off his tongue like smoke, “An old flame.”

-

He doesn’t expect there to be a second time but he’s more prepared this time.

Charlie was a good actor, but it wasn’t borne out of love for the skill but out of necessity. He wasn’t like Neil with an overbearing father, well, not overbearing in quite the same way. The world tried to press Charlie into a mold he refused to keep himself in. Neil had his lovingly crafted. 

So he acted out the teenage Charlie who hadn’t been fettered by things like death and consequences. 

“You’re quiet this afternoon.” Knox says at his elbow. Charlie curbs a remark about his haircut only because he had met his mirror this morning and was completely unimpressed by his own mop. No wonder Gloria hadn’t gone for him.

“Scheming, Knoxious, always planning.” He doesn’t remember if he had always had that phone call prank in his back pocket, but he wouldn’t be caught dead doing it again. He’d find a way to wake himself up if he had to.

“Are you sure, you’re not going to ralph on the Headmaster’s shoes are you?” 

Charlie scoffs.

“No, why would I do that?”

“You’re eating like a starved man and you had something wrong with your stomach yesterday. It’s a bit low-brow to make yourself sick again but it might be worth the look on his face.” 

Charlie’s fork slips from his nerveless fingers. 

His mouth hangs open to the utter disgust of his companions. Knox remembered his excuse from yesterday or a week ago.

“What day is it?” He hears Cameron make a snide comment about amnesia not being a symptom of a stomach illness. 

“Thursday, you didn’t forget your trigonometry assignment did you?” Knox looks half-confused and half-sympathetic as Charlie’s mind whirls. He looks sightlessly past Knox to Neil who is quietly conversing with Todd. 

It doesn’t make sense. 

The room shifts and lurches and he can’t breathe suddenly, choking on air or is the food. Charlie gasps and Meeks is there, stooping over him, peering at him in concern.

“Charlie, can you tell me what the date is?” 

He blinks away spots from his vision. He’s still restrained as he tries to get his hand up to his face and tug against the wide leather strap.

“Charlie?” Gerard looks wide-eyed even as Meeks remains calm.

“Thursday,” No, that’s not right. He didn’t think it was a Thursday. “June,” he tries again. 

“What year is it?” Charlie is tired and heavy.

“1968.” 

“I’ll drive him home.” Pittsie sounds guilty and he can’t have that. Pitts wouldn’t hurt a fly if it landed in his soup.

“I’m fine,” his teeth ached and his hands were still trembling, but he needed them to give it another chance, give _him_ another chance. The machine wasn’t targeting a happy memory, but maybe it was the only memory that mattered.

Gerard helped him up.

“We can swing by that burger place you like, Pittsie.” His attempts at levity didn’t seem to be a hit with the crowd but Charlie could win them over with enough determination. 

-

He shouldn’t be surprised that the doctor duo managed to phone Knox, but he didn’t think it was enough of an emergency to warrant an overnight flight from wherever the fuck he was to annoy Charlie in his own home. 

“Are you fucking stupid? here sign this.” He never should’ve given him a copy of the key. 

“What is it?” Charlie doesn’t even greet Knox, who cuts an elegant figure in his suit and tie among the clutter of his living room and bothers even less with the form in his hand. His eyes are bloodshot and his face seems thinner than the last time he saw him. Lawyers don’t get paid enough to feed themselves apparently. He brushes past him to get to the kitchen. An omelet should suffice. Charlie doesn’t remember the last time he turned on the stove. 

“Something Meeks should’ve fucking done from the beginning. I’m not even going to ask why you thought it was a good idea to be a damn lab rat for Meeks and Pitts, but if you’re going to continue to be stupid, you should sign this waiver.” There’s enough censure in his voice to make Charlie flinch if he hadn’t been distracted breaking eggs. 

“You’re not my lawyer anymore.” The last time Knox had been in his kitchen he’d been at his breaking point, telling Charlie that _he couldn’t be his voice of reason_ anymore. 

Charlie felt calmer than last time. He wasn’t sure if that was because of the dream-memory or the sliver of hope lodged in his chest. 

“I am actually. You gave me power of attorney in case anything happened. Jesus, Charlie, did you even ask Meeks what that thing could do to you? He nearly gave me a heart attack.” 

Charlie stop dicing the tomato and turns. 

“Knoxie, not to be a terrible host but shut up.” His voice doesn’t rise up to where it would’ve been in previous years. He’s not angry really. All of that has exhausted itself in the past or the figment of his imagination. 

Knox folds like paper, collapsing into the nearest chair and staring at him with his patented wounded hangdog eyes. 

Charlie sighs, knowing he’ll have to leave his omelet preparation in the wind. He sits, taking stock of the idiot who barged into his life because he cared enough to check he wasn’t foaming at the mouth or too messed up to get out of bed. He wasn’t sure, to be perfectly honest, that he wasn’t going to take a turn back to drugging his sorrows away but he had a purpose.

And Charlie with a purpose felt better than he had in years. 

“You know you’re my best friend. Knox.” It’s not a question. Chance had brought them together but choice was the only thing keeping them there. Knox looks even more worried at the words. He can almost see the millions of thoughts rolling around in that big brain of his. 

“I know you always had a,” Charlie searches for the word as he lets his hand wave around to fill in the gap. “Doubt, because I met Neil first.” It doesn’t hurt to talk about him, he realizes, his lungs in perfect working order. 

“But Neil was _Neil_. He was the grandest of us all, the best of us.” his voice catches, but he can’t stop. Knox is pale in the light. They had avoided their friend’s ghost for so long, it must’ve been a shock to mention him so casually.

“You’re my best friend, Knoxie, and I _need_ my best friend. I don’t need a minder or a lawyer or a-a father. I just need you to be my best friend, alright?” Knox gets up, chair squeaking with the force of the motion. 

Knoxie’s hugs are the best medicine money couldn’t buy. They were just a tad too hard and a tad too long for Charlie to ever replace. He had missed him between all the excitement and misery.

“I hate fighting with you, Charlie.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” His mind was already wallpapering over the ugly words and silences they had last. 

“No, _I’m_ sorry, you were right.” Knox smiles ruefully at Charlie’s head snapping up. It was a rarity to hear Knox say those words. 

“You were right. I treated you like....like a kid. It wasn’t--I wasn’t trying to replace your parents. I just-I didn’t know what to _do_ , Charlie. You were all alone after your parent’s accident and you needed someone. I wasn’t sure if I was enough to keep you going.” 

He doesn’t really remember the months after the burial. It’s all flashes of senses, stills in the hazy frames of memory with Knox reminding him to eat and sleep.

“You did. You were.” Charlie says simply, knowing it would be impossible to ever put into words how much it meant to him having Knox with him at that time. It wasn’t his job to take care of him but he’d done it while still working at Goldman and Curtis as an intern.

Knox wipes at his suspiciously watering eyes, but Charlie doesn’t comment on it, getting up again to make his best friend something of a meal.

“How’s Anna?” He changes the subject to less rocky waters.

“Great, great. We’re--we’re trying for a baby…since I made junior partner over Owens.” There’s a bit of shyness in the statement that makes Charlie want to kick himself.

“There’s going to be a little Knox running around?” It’s not a surprise exactly, Knox had always wanted a family of his own and Anna would make a great mom as evidenced by her younger siblings adoring the woman. 

“Yeah,” he chuckles, and a warmth suffused Charlie, pride at who Knox is or how far he’s come. 

“That’s great. Tell Harry he’ll have competition on favorite uncle.” He pauses, unsure if that was the right thing to say but Knox only laughs harder. He stops what he’s doing, morbid curiosity dogging Charlie impatiently. It’s only a question. It’s on the tip of his tongue to ask Knox if he remembers him being sick or strange the days before Neil’s death.

But there was a chance he would say no. 

Charlie resumed his cooking. 

-

It was the day of the play. 

He doesn’t know what will happen, or if it would even make a difference.

But Charlie had to try, and he had half a plan. He couldn’t just stand there like in his memory.

 _Neil, Neil, Mr. Perry, come on!_

Even if it was just in his imagination, Charlie would change things. He was armed with the terrible knowledge of what would happen if he let it happen again. All of them, Meeks, Pitts, Knox, Todd, they would all be plagued by such quiet desperation at his death, at the vacant hole they had to walk alongside because of one choice.

He corners Neil before English, both of them trailing behind the rest of the pack. Todd for once not sticking to his side like a shadow and up ahead with Knox.

“Neil, wait a second.” He felt flustered, his breathing short as if he had been running instead of walking leisurely to class with a boy who wouldn’t live past today except in their memories. Charlie’s hands felt sweaty with anticipation. 

Neil had always trusted him. It was something Charlie had taken for granted back then. From the first day they had been assigned as roommates in their first year to the day he left them, Neil had listened to Charlie whether he agreed or not. He’d been entirely too good for him.

“What’s on your mind, Nuwanda?” He was the only one who had ever said Nuwanda like that, warmly, like it wasn’t a joke, like he understood wanting to be someone else for a while, wanting to be defined by your own terms. Charlie exhaled slowly. 

“The play tonight-- you’re going to be great.” Neil looks surprised but delighted by the compliment. His eyes shining with happiness. Charlie feels his guts twist. He looked so young. He’d be that young forever because of that happiness taken away from him.

“Thanks, Charlie.” It’s quiet like he’s not quite sure what to do with the praise. The acid burn of regret travels up his body. It’s a faint and horrible realization that no one but Keating had managed to compliment Neil to his face before Mr. Perry had bundled him into the car and driven away. They had cheered and whistled as the curtain went down but had anyone told him how he shined on stage before he took the gun out of its safe.

“And no matter what happens,” he grabs Neil by his arms, forcing him to stop, meeting his eyes seriously, “no matter what, Neil, we’re going to be here to support you.” A faint flush spreads across his cheeks and his eyes dance around nervously, causing Charlie to let go in case anyone were to be watching them. Neil squares his shoulders, looking every inch the leader of their ragtag group, of the Dead Poets Society.

“Okay, okay,” He nods in thanks, “Let’s go before we’re late for class.”

Charlie can hardly remember the rest of the afternoon, fragmented through the worry crushing his soul. He debated telling Keating, debates heading off Mr. Perry, debates letting Neil go.

In the end, he treks dutifully with the rest of their friends and sits at the edge of the aisle to watch Neil become Puck with a wreath upon his head, casting a spell with just words.

He slips away as the clapping starts. 

“Neil!” He startles a few of the cast members with his shout. Everyone was congratulating each other for the job well done backstage. Charlie couldn’t waste any time, desperation filling him, coiling around his throat like a noose. Neil looks as bright as he remembered, loose and happy. 

“Charlie, Charlie, I did it. I did it and it was just like you said. I was good, wasn’t I?” It rushes out of him like a river. Charlie wants to hate himself.

“Neil, your father is here. He saw the whole thing.” The words drain Neil’s face of excitement and Charlie wants to bring it back, is willing to fight God to bring it back. He wasn’t sure if Neil had caught his father being there the last time, hadn’t managed to say a single word of condolence to him at the funeral.

Words and plans evaporate, rearrange, go too fast for Charlie to keep up but his mouth is already working along thoughts he hadn’t touched since before Neil was gone.

“You can’t go with him, Neil. We can leave right now. We can go back to Welton and you won’t have to give this up. He can’t make you give this up like the annual. You can’t go.” Charlie’s voice gains an edge of panic, his hands grabbing him like a parody of the afternoon. Everything he hadn’t managed to say before, spilling out. 

“It’s okay, Charlie, I’m not afraid.” Neil is gentle, despite what they must look like, despite the scene they’re making-- Charlie losing any composure in front of their little audience of actors. 

“No, you can’t, Neil, please, you can’t.” He breaks, bowing his head, and shutting his eyes against the burn of tears. Charlie lets out a sob as Neil holds him.

“Please,” it’s hoarse, but in the strange quiet surrounding them, it’s louder than a gunshot. His head is pressed hard against Neil’s collar. _Don’t go_ he thinks and thinks and hopes. Neil lets him go, a brave smile on his face.

The lights swim and brighten before his eyes. His body is floating. 

If this was death, at least he had seen Puck once more.

The world went dark.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

He wakes up muzzy and light-headed.

The whiteness of the room doesn’t help his headache in the least. He wonders where Meeks or Pitts were before he sees a man sleeping in a chair just an arm length’s away from his bed. His hair is too dark to be Knox, but he can’t think of anyone else who wait for him to wake up.

Charlie tries to speak but his throat feels parched and all he can manage is a pitiful groan. It startles the stranger awake enough to call out his name.

“Charlie?” The tone is pleasant even with the worry underneath. “Hey,” is tacked on in such simple affection that he tries furiously to chase any spark of recognition, concentrating on his features. 

“You had a seizure. Meeks called me at work. I was so scared.” 

Suddenly, his mind connects the dots. His face had left youth behind and he was wearing glasses he’d never seen before. Charlie’s eyes start to water, unwilling to believe he would be this cruel to himself, even as some wild hope bled into his heart. 

“Puck?” It’s barely a whisper but it lights up Neil’s face.

His mouth had faint lines around it, the beginnings of a permanent reminder that he had more occasion to smile than to frown. He was smiling right now, in fact, a tender, soft smile aimed at Charlie that he couldn’t have possibly dreamt up if given a million years with the boy who never grew up into this man before him.

“That’s right. Robin Goodfellow at your service.” He squeezed his hand lightly before stepping in closer to tousle his hair with a brush of his knuckles. 

Charlie can’t look away, drinking in the sight of Neil before him.

“Is this a dream?” The words scratch against his throat. Neil laughs. It shoots starbursts of joy off in Charlie’s brain. 

“What kind of dream would this be, Charlie?”

"The best kind." 

  
  
  


_ I’m with you in Rockland _

_ where we wake up electrified out of the coma by our own souls’ airplanes roaring over the roof they’ve come to drop angelic bombs the hospital illuminates itself    imaginary walls collapse    O skinny legions run outside    O starry-spangled shock of mercy the eternal war is here    O victory forget your underwear we’re free _

_ I’m with you in Rockland _

_ in my dreams you walk dripping from a sea-journey on the highway across America in tears to the door of my cottage in the Western night _

**Author's Note:**

> Notes:
> 
> +title obviously coming from [Puck's last speech](https://www.opensourceshakespeare.org/views/plays/play_view.php?WorkID=midsummer&Act=5&Scene=1&Scope=scene&LineHighlight=2275#2275), the poorly constructed concept of a memory/changing your regrets machine is ripped off from The Discovery  
> +Edith Piaf's ["Non, Je Ne Regrette Rien"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q3Kvu6Kgp88) first released in 1959 which happens to be their senior year, though Charlie probably doesn't appreciate the song until later in life. He specifically quotes: "I set fire to my memories" or depending on the translation "with my memories, I set the flame."  
> +"human seraphim" also comes from ["Howl"](https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/49303/howl) by Ginsberg: _who blew and were blown by those human seraphim_. By the time Charlie gets to university, the copies would've been outlawed but it's Charlie.  
>  +There's a lot of tiny references to the film, but I actually didn't get to rewatch beyond some clips on youtube because it's a heavy movie for me. I never actually imagined ever writing fic for it.  
> +There's also headcanons galore with this, including Charlie's parents dying post-canonical events, Charlie not speaking to Todd for Reasons dealing with what he does for a living, Charlie going for a journalistic degree before dropping out.  
> 


End file.
